


formidable forms

by Loran_Arameri



Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Blow Jobs, Eliot's first year boys, Fantasizing, Hand Jobs, M/M, No actual sex happens, Quentin is in denial (deep), Taking place during The Magicians, no spoilers for The Magician King and The Magician's Land
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28524021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loran_Arameri/pseuds/Loran_Arameri
Summary: Quentin's life is quieting down again after moving up a year and the fight with Penny. It's quiet enough to wonder about the things he saw of Eliot at the observatory. There is no reason for Quentin to think about it really, but then, why can't he stop?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 16
Kudos: 19
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	formidable forms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morcalivan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morcalivan/gifts).



> Something short and hot for Morcalivan's stocking.
> 
> A big thank you to [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/pseuds/Rubick) and [redtoblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoblack/pseuds/redtoblack) for beta.

Quentin was holed up on a sagging leather couch in one corner of the library, staring at the same page of Greeves’ _Formidable Forms: Pragmatic application of Ludger’s theoretical framework_ he had been staring at for far too long now. He started from the top. 

_The redistribution of energy in a system contrary to the gradients of heat, field strength, light emission, etc. without manipulating the entropy on a macroscopic—or therefore microscopic level—and the problems resulting from this very affront towards the observable laws that have governed…_

The snow that had been driving down the past two days was now covering everything outside the barely translucent window panes on the far side of the room, making it brighter than it usually was. It was making Quentin feel unpleasantly illuminated. 

_... that uneducated minds might think. The properly refined magic user will find that with time and practise (and even more practise) the theories laid out by Ludger are simply another fundamental which will require the same attention…_

Small numbers of students were crossing the sea, indistinguishable from Quentin’s position. Unbidden Gretchen’s words from two weeks ago came back to him.

_I bet he’s one of Eliot’s—_

He hadn’t found out what he supposedly was to Eliot, nor did he get a chance to tell Gretchen what he thought about those presumptions. He would have told her! He could have told her… There was no shame in being Eliot’s— _Eliot’s blank_. Let’s go with that. He wondered how much apparently all of Brakebills knew about what Eliot did in the observatory, despite Quentin only finding out by sheer luck—or rather coincidence. Quentin wanted to believe that they had only vague rumors compared to his first-hand account. They didn’t know half of it.

_...comparable parameters will lead to variation in results if…_

Eliot hadn’t asked Quentin, though. Not when he was a first-year and not now as a second-year. He obviously had asked a row of other boys. For a moment, Eliot’s face from after Quentin’s fight with Penny flashed into his memory, still too difficult to bear. That was the way Eliot looked at him now, with pity. Quentin swallowed against some resistance in his throat. 

Had Eliot considered asking him about the observatory before that day? The year was far from over. Of course, Quentin would have had to deny the request. Maturely; it wasn’t a big thing. Didn’t have to be. He had thought before that Eliot might have taken it badly, but not if Quentin had gone about it with respect and dignity? _"Sorry, but that’s just not my thing."_ Maybe he could offer to go have a smoke instead? 

_"But how do you know it’s not your thing if you haven’t tried it?"_ Eliot would ask with that slightly askew smile. 

Quentin could hear it in his head, Eliot as always so very convinced in everything he did. _"That would be quite a big thing to miss about yourself wouldn’t it?"_ Quentin would try to argue. 

_"Let me show you."_ Eliot would step closer and take Quentin’s hand in his. _"A hand is a hand, right? And a hand on your dick feels good. Ergo, you’d probably like my hand on your dick."_

Quentin would guide Eliot’s hand downwards to test that theory. And true to the hypothesis, the heat of Eliot’s fingers through his slacks would make him crave more. The slight pressure just enough to imagine what it would be like without all those confining layers of cloth. He would look up at Eliot, and there it would be, that hunger for more, that had only attention for one person. 

Quentin’s cock throbbed. Not his hypothetical one in Eliot’s hand—well, that too—but the real one that was going from a half chub towards ready-to-go real damn fast. 

He dropped his notepad on his lap, turning his head to make sure no one had seen anything. 

Over the following days, the scene came back to Quentin over and over again at the most awkward times. In class or at dinner, when there was at least a table to hide his lower half from the rest, but also when he had to do partner work in class, and there was a lull, or when he was just trying to have a conversation like a normal person. He was distracted and, as a result, irritated. He had hoped that it was an anomaly, caused by the embarrassment of getting beaten up, that would let up by itself. Just something to daydream about, making him feel like he wasn’t pathetic. But the frequency did not teeter out, nor did the amplitude decay. It seemed to actually get worse. 

He caught himself thinking about the light from the small windows on Eliot’s face, the warmth of someone’s skin on his own. A few times he was tempted to go and check the observatory again. 

It had to stop. Quentin had to exorcise his demons, which meant they had to come out. All of them. Face it, deal with it, and then move on. 

He picked Saturday afternoon, told everyone that he would be studying all day, and locked himself in his room. He made sure he had everything he would need—tissues, lotion, his hands—and got to work. Well, first he pulled the covers off the bed, then decided to put them back, just in case. Then he wasn’t sure what clothes to get rid of. Pants for sure; he would be here a while. After all, the plan was to get it out of his system all at once. Briefs? Could stay on for now. T-shirt? No reason to get rid of that; he always kept it on in his fantasies, and so here it would stay too. Quentin was sure that wouldn't change. At least 80%. 78. He would just start and see where it got him. 

When there was nothing else reasonable or unreasonable to do, he plopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. And stared. The thoughts came at every other time of day; they had to bubble up any second. He could hear a pipe snap somewhere in the building. Think about Eliot. No! Don’t think about Eliot. There was no need to feed this thing. And it would be inappropriate, right? It wasn’t Eliot he was obsessed with after all. It was that awfully damned combination of events and his feeling of inadequacy resulting from it. 

He lay there for another minute, but now his mind was revolving around everything that had sucked since he got to Brakebills, and that was a surprising amount of suck right there. The plan of getting rid of the fantasies was going off the rails before it even started. He needed an anchor point. The observatory. He had spent enough comfortable hours up there. He could see himself in that place. Maybe he would grab the armchair that Eliot had put up there. He could repair the tears in the seat first. They had learned the spells for it already. It was pretty easy. Eliot could show up while he was doing it, watch as he put the ripped edges back together. Quentin would notice from the corner of his eye, but Eliot would let him finish, following the movement of his hand. He would stand up from where he had been kneeling in front of the seat, and Eliot would smile at him. Quentin tugged his briefs down where they were pinching right in his inner thigh. 

Would Eliot care about the color of the chair? Orange seemed out of whack for him. He probably just got it from somewhere and had to take what he could find. Changing the color would be a bit more difficult though. 

Quentin slapped a hand over his face and groaned. They weren't redecorating. They were...doing stuff. Eliot could ask him what he was doing there. Should Quentin tell him that he had seen him there before and that he wanted to fix the chair for him? Would Eliot be angry that he watched? No, Eliot could have closed and weighed down the trap door! It wasn’t Quentin’s fault. Maybe he’d wanted someone to come and see; wanted Quentin to… 

Quentin’s cock made itself known. So, that was a good avenue to explore—apparently. 

That day, the way Eliot was with Eric, it made Quentin horny and uncomfortable at the same time. He didn’t know which irritated him more. But it didn’t matter. That was not a scenario he was going for. Quentin wasn’t gay. That was how hypothetical Eliot had convinced him before. Hands were hands. Eliot with his hand on Quentin’s crotch. Opening the button to reach inside. His wrist putting pressure along Quentin’s lower abdomen, while he reached Quentin’s cock with his fingers. 

Quentin pushed his own hand in his briefs, giving his growing erection a few tugs. 

Quentin could in turn open Eliot’s pants, get his cock out. If it didn’t matter which hand was on his own dick, did it matter if he was jerking himself off or Eliot? 

Quentin pushed down his briefs and grabbed the lotion. It was cold for a moment, but the slick glide was rewarding enough. Did hypothetical Eliot think about bringing lotion or maybe lube? It depended on what he’d planned for. Would mutual handjobs be enough? It hadn’t been with Eric. 

If a hand was a hand...a mouth…? 

Without his willing input, Quentin was mentally sitting in the no longer teared up armchair. He was looking down at Eliot, bright-eyed and only there for him. It’s not about Eliot, he told himself. The scene kept on moving. 

Eliot opened his pants, pulling them down together with the underwear. Somewhere there was an echo of what Quentin saw that day in November, but this wasn’t the same. While Eliot dived to take his cock into his mouth, Quentin ran his fingers through his hair, holding them back. The dark strands were unruly but smooth, offering themselves to be held, ever so slightly, to give Eliot something to work against, as he was taking Quentin’s cock as if it was the only thing standing between him and death. Eliot acknowledged it with a deep moan, and almost terrified, Quentin noticed that he was halfway there already. “Careful,” he said, and Eliot’s eyes snapped up, his lips holding onto just the tip. Quentin thought that he never had felt so assured of someone’s attention. With a laugh, he said, “It’s hard to hold out if you give it your all.” 

A cocked eyebrow: Eliot took that as a challenge apparently, as he went down on him again as vigorously as before. And was there really a reason not to? Before Quentin could answer his own question, he fell into rhythm with Eliot’s movements. Just the slightest roll of his hips to meet the bob of his head. Eliot answered the change with a whimper. The whole moment was burning itself into Quentin’s memory. The way the wood creaked under Eliot when he moved up and differently when he moved down. How that sound mixed into the feeling of Eliot’s hot mouth on his cock. The way Eliot looked with seemingly nothing else on his mind but Quentin. 

Soon, Quentin was teetering on the edge. In a moment's decision, he pulled on Eliot’s hair to make him let up. He didn’t want to, groaning in protest, but when Quentin said _Eliot_ he went down once more before following where Quentin guided him up. Quentin leaned down, their lips meeting with a clash. His hand grabbed his own cock, jerking it while Eliot devoured his mouth like he did his dick before. The sheer physicality of it mixed with the thought of _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot_ was crashing at Quentin’s composure, and finally, he spilled all over his hand and probably the floor. Eliot leaned back just as Quentin whined into his mouth. 

There was a double image, as Quentin was lying in his bed and at the same time looking down at Eliot’s dream-like face, his come cooling on his thigh. The realization of all that he had been imagining was trickling in, and he said into the room once more, “Eliot.” 

He was in much deeper shit than he thought. 


End file.
